Ultio Ultionis
by Nothing Really Specific
Summary: Erik investigates the murder of a boy whom he believes was his legitimate son and enlists the help of an Italian artist.


**Ultio Ultionis**

**-I-**

The night of October 12th, 1876 beheld the lights of the world shining with exuberance. The bourgeois gallivanted to galas behaving like drunken Napoleons- claiming to imperialize the world and crust the peasantry of it. The music formulated a symphony of detestable pretentiousness, in which the desires of man superseded the will of God, for tonight in the square of Notre-Dame, a boy no less than twenty-seven, perhaps even close to thirty-one, perished in an act of malice and decrepit state of mind. In short, poison of the bottle which encompassed a patron of said elixir destroyed this boy's innocence and breath. For the boy was ravished and disposed of in the Seine and not a single one of the masses seemed to care. Not a single lord in the sea of regents attending the mediocre and admittedly bland performance of Madame Carlotta (in the role of Gioconda) turned their heads toward The Lady of Paris. They simply applauded with the Gates of Hell, having no sympathy for the people of the earth.

In the midst of the wolves was the only sane person in the entire city of Paris, Pellegrino Leggiéri, an Italian migrant originally from Sicily. An artist of music and contemporary Impressionism, Pellegrino was at the moment, sitting in the back row of section number twelve- below box five. From his seat, Pellegrino situated himself comfortably in his chair- crossing his legs and periodically smiling at the drab bore of the first operetta, a soprano piece by none other than The Queen of Dismal Swans herself.

_Christ, _Pellegrino thought, _if this is the consistency of extravagance in Paris, then I shall advise my friends to skip the operas and go to the Louvre, at least there you'll find one attractive female. Comparing da Vinci's piece to Carlotta is like comparing Botticelli's Venus to Madame Potato Eater in Vincent van Gogh's work. There is nothing comparable in terms of beauty between them._

Pellegrino looked up at the ceiling and admired the cherubs that decorated it as well as the chandelier, which sparkled as if it were made of stars. The Italian artist yawned as his eyes proceeded to meander their way to the rafters of the stage seeing something of particular unusualness there.

A man, or what was perceived to be a man, stood above the curtain near the crank towards stage right. Pellegrino noticed that this figure, this apparition, had nothing significantly inferior, but just the disposition of him was concerning. He was hunched over like a gargoyle, back overarched as if he were trying to get a better view of the stage. His face, which Pellegrino could not entirely see partially due to a mask that covered the western position of it, appeared to wear a demonic smile- as if he were planning to intentionally drop the curtain on Carlotta, who was finishing her solo. The man of shadow clenched his fist, damning the world with it and holding the curtain rope with the other. Proper timing was apparently needed for the appropriate effect of terror, the exciting emotion of fear and the beautiful tranquility of chaos. The note that ended the song was three notes away and all Pellegrino could do was fix his gaze on this man who forsook the world and embraced the cause of justice.

_Someone with a like-minded thought process._ The Italian thought to himself. _Perhaps I shall run into him when the hysteria unfolds._

The death knoll was a piercing High C that was executed poorly and extremely sharp. The audience cringed and it was here that Pellegrino watched the rope fall into the expanse of the theatre and the man who released it disappear into its walls.

As the curtain fell, Carlotta screamed dramatically as divas often do. Failing her arms like a dead fish flopping on land, she rolled herself over and was assisted by the lead bass, Monsieur Gaston Géroux, a man of great sensibility and humility. Although Gaston despised Carlotta with every fiber in his being, the son of the Abbot of Saint Chappelle assisted her like Atlas, heaving the world up from the fires of the divinities.

The crowd stood, and as the last man of the last row in the last seat did so, the light exploded into nothingness, sending a piercing cry of deliverance to the world, to the sun, to God, to return the light of hope, of prosperity, of reassurance. To reduce the basic principle of sight, a right bestowed upon all men, to a privilege, a reserved right, is to show one of two things: power, madness, or both. To destroy the sight forever, even to a few, is to be the Devil. For only the Devil, who knows no mercy, can convince of such malice. So it was that the chandelier was removed from the security of its position in the ceiling and so it was that the populace rushed for the doors and stampeding into chairs and into walls and into doors- for the first time in their lives, they understood what Death looked like and it was because of this epiphany that the man who released the curtain (and played Prometheus and Galileo simultaneously) laughed.

Pellegrino Leggiéri, who rushed with the folk, felt the cold hand of the Skeleton touch his shoulder. The artist froze into submission. His spine shivered and his eyes turned to as far back as they allowed themselves. The Skeleton eased his grip and simply patted Leggiéri's shoulder. As the masses ran past him, Pellegrino stood still in the grim, it wasn't that he didn't want to move, he did. He wanted more than anyone to return to the light and see the Seine to give confirmation that he was in fact, on Earth. But he stayed in darkness.

_I honestly do not know why, _the Italian thought, _but I feel that he wants me to do, see, or help him with something. It has to be important for why would he turn the lights off and destroy that beautiful chandelier?_

It took several minutes, approximately seven, for the entire theatre, including the lobby, to clear out. With the patrons in the street and the Italian in the darkness, the Skeleton from the rafters came to Pellegrino from behind again. This time, a candle in hand.

"Monsieur," the Skeleton said, sounding like Chiron, wise, regal and sophisticated. "it appears you take interest in the work of a ghost." He smiled, "Amusing."

"What do you want from me?" Pellegrino asked, not daring to look this person or being, or whoever it was directly in the face.

The Ghost moved round to Pellegrino's front and upon seeing the Italian smiled again, admiring the man's unflinching face. "You are either a brilliant actor or a dismal admirer."

The Italian, upon seeing Him, did nothing but stare agape- as if this meeting were either the most terrifying or the most exciting occurrence to happen in his life. Forget about the most exciting occurrence of the night, for it can be said that Pellegrino Leggiéri led a dull, unimpressive and average life up until this point. Perhaps it was the fact that Pellegrino's heart was beating at dangerous levels that it would be considered exciting, or perhaps it could have been his brow, which was perspiring more than the month of April. His breath slowed and eventually escaped him. The Ghost laughed again.

"To ask you the question 'are you afraid' would be somewhat redundant at this point I take it?"

Pellegrino nodded. "Y-y-yes it would Monsieur…"

"Erik." The Ghost answered.

"My n-n-name is Pellegrino…"

"Pellegrino Adalfieri Leggiéri," Erik said finishing the Italian's sentence. He walked towards the stage, holding the candle out in front of him. Watching Erik ascend into darkness, Pellegrino envisioned The Reaper, taking him to the River Styx. Erik stopped a moment and turned back towards the poor man.

"Are you going to accompany me or are you going to unsuccessfully navigate yourself to the door?" Erik asked.

Pellegrino reluctantly walked towards Erik discovering no solace in the fact that as he got closer to the Face of Death, it showed no signs of improvement. The only sign of humanity the Italian saw remaining of this person was the simple fact that his silhouette appeared human.

Erik stepped to the side, allowing Pellegrino to walk slightly ahead of him. Footsteps of the opera performers were heard backstage. They were thumping around like a herd of disoriented elephants. Carlotta's shrieking was a tortured soul from Hell- begging forgiveness and mercy from God. She would receive nothing.

"So," Pellegrino said, as he approached stage right, "why me?"

Erik laughed, "That is the most clichéd question on Earth, Monsieur, why me, what did I do to deserve this, what do you want from me, why did you harm those people, what do you plan to do with me- all clichés and all are given a similar answer."

Erik reached a hand out in front of Pellegrino for a moment, telling him to stop.

"You may want to hold this." Erik said, handing the candle over to Pellegrino as he ascended the small staircase to the stage and took an immediate left. After a moment of opening a passageway that intelligently resembled a broom closet, Erik reappeared to Pellegrino and with a small thespian bow, ushered him into his realm.

As they walked in between the wall of the house and the wall of dressing rooms, Erik consistently kept a finger over his mouth, signaling Pellegrino to be silent. As they progressed, the Italian noticed that Erik moved relatively quickly, as if to avoid detection or capture. He also noticed that Erik's eyes shifted from left to right, suspecting and inspecting the walls to be sure that no one was peering in. When the end of this passage was reached, Erik opened another door to a wider more trusted area; Erik walked normally and allowed conversation to resume.

"I'm sure you have questions and you shall receive answers." Erik said.

"Yes, firstly," the Italian said, "what are you doing with me?"

Erik sighed, and thought to himself, _I hate damn clichés. _

"What I want from you is cooperation." Erik answered.

"Cooperation with what exactly?" Pellegrino asked.

"I was about to get to that," Erik said, scolding him a bit. "I need your assistance in a grave and dismal turn of events- one of which pertains to murder."

Pellegrino stopped a moment. His head came up with seven different hypothesizes, six of which included his demise by this Skeleton and the other an uncertain fate. "Would it be wrong of me to ask the specifics?"

"It would be wrong of you not to Monsieur," Erik said, stopping also and turning back again. Instead of the Grim Reaper this time, Pellegrino saw a lonely man who did not wish to be lonely anymore- a soul who was so traumatized by a singular, non-witnessed event, that he enlisted the help of someone who merely saw him in the rafters.

"The specifics of the matter," Erik continued, "are that a boy, younger than you by ten years I suspect, was murdered in the purview of Saint Denis and Notre-Dame."

"How, unfortunate." The Italian replied, not knowing what else to say.

Erik shook his head, turned back around and continued walking. "Do not give me faux sympathy," he said, "I do not deserve it."

They continued down the corridor to another door and proceeded this way until they reached a river adorned with the Associates of Beelzebub on all sides. As Pellegrino stepped into the boat and took a seat, the image of Death escorting him across the River Styx reappeared into his mind and projected itself into reality.

As Erik navigated the boat through the river, he continued his explanation. "As to why specifically I need your help is because you were stupid enough to look in my direction. I have to ask, was it in admiration or curiosity?"

"If I were to tell you that I was praying that someone would end that nightmare of a performance would you believe me?"

Erik smiled, "I would. I never approved of her much. She was always an egotistical whore. Would it surprise you that I stuffed a rat in her pillow?"

Pellegrino laughed, "No it wouldn't."

When they reached the abode, Pellegrino could not fathom the amount of candelabras, sheet music and theatre props. It was a wonderland for playwrights, a treasure for music enthusiasts, a mystery to artists like Pellegrino and a home and bed to a Ghost.

Erik stepped onto land first and assisted Pellegrino out.

"So," Pellegrino said, "I am to assume that you want me to help you figure out who murdered this child?"

"Precisely." Erik replied. "I shall pay you handsomely for the work. All I ask in return are true reports and if possible, the body itself."

The Italian turned towards his guide, noticing that he now sat at a piano and played a few random notes in repetition thirty-seven times and then moved to retire to bed.

"You may go if you wish," Erik said, "the exit is through that door." He pointed towards a decrepit little wooden one, it was about to fall of the hinges apparently but it sufficed. "Just follow the passages straight, do not make any turns. You'll end on Boulevard des Capucines."

Pellegrino looked in the direction of the door and nodded. As he proceeded his way to it, Erik proceeded his way to his chambers.

Slowly but surely, Erik managed to undress and redress into bedclothes and pull back a large set of thick sheets. Although Erik made no sound, Pellegrino could sense that Erik was suffering just by the amount of time it took to do each activity.

"Erik," the Italian asked, once the Ghost was settled.

"You still here?" Erik replied, "If you want there is an extra bed to your right if you do not feel the need to-"

"No, I'll leave," Pellegrino said, "I just have one final question."

"Go on."

"Who was this boy to you?"

Erik did not directly answer that. He simply turned himself over, took a breath and said, "If I were to tell you that I loved him but never laid eyes on him, would you believe me?"

"Honestly?"

Erik nodded, even though he realized that Pellegrino could not see him. "The only acceptable kinds of answers Monsieur Leggiéri."

"If I were to tell you that I don't believe you, would you believe me?"

"Sadly, yes, I most definitely would."


End file.
